Candide
by 100reasonswhy
Summary: It's all of these things, he thinks, lying awake next to her. He loves her, and he hates himself for it. But it's quite alright. He thinks Lyra would forgive him for it one day. Maybe.


" _You're a bitter man," said Candide._

" _That's because I have lived," said Martin._

 _-Candide,_ Voltaire.

* * *

She is not Lyra, not in any sense.

She has a rather demure standing, with a shy smile and pale eyes. Her hair is that of oaken wood, straight and lank and falling loosely round her neck. The sweater she wears looks as though she is borrowing it from her father; it swallows her tiny torso within its beige and white speckled fabric. The jeans are skinny, her legs are slim and short, and when he finally stands to his full height, he realizes she barely meets his shoulder.

She is smiling, and she is pretty. And for the first time in his life, he does not feel guilty at thinking so.

"Hello," she says, rather dumbly, as though it was an afterthought she blurted out.

"Hello," he replies, his voice quiet. His lips already curled into a timid grin.

She turns her head, adjusts the purple beanie that sits messily over her head, before glancing down at the books on the floor. They'd forgotten to be irritated at one another, for the moment that they'd collided and their possessions had gone sprawling over the dead grass, they were staring at each other in a near entrancement.

Embarrassed, Will kneels immediately, pulling each book into his wide grasp. He can hold all of his and hers without trouble. The cover of her textbooks are shiny, the boldface text of _Philosophy_ glinting in the dim morning light.

"Philosophy?" he asks, more perplexed than he'd intended.

She smiles, nodding. "A minor in English. And you…" Her hands weave themselves between his arms, pulling at his dog-eared and yellowing textbook. Drawing it from his grasp, she smiles easily and skims the cover. "Biology?"

"Pre-medicine."

"Ah." A light glimmers within her bright gaze, and for a moment, she looks lost within him. His hear throbs. There hadn't been many girls he'd allowed to look at him like that—not for a very, very long time.

Kirjava winds herself around Will's legs, meowing mildly. The girl passes a rather confused look to the cat and then to Will. "Is that yours?"

He's stunned for a moment. Glancing down at Kirjava, he opens his mouth to speak, the words foolishly caught in his throat. "What-you see her?"

The girl is befuddled. "Well...yeah."

He feels as though he's on fire. "Then...yeah, she's mine."

"You have her on campus?"

"Yes."

There is a moment of silence.

"I'm Will," he says, foolishly again. "Will Parry."

"Jane," she replies with that sweet smile that makes him float. "Jane Rutherford."

* * *

Perhaps it is the way she talks—always rather hurried, rushed, shy and tentative, as though she never knows what to say and feels as though what she is saying makes little to no sense, which indeed, it usually doesn't. It's the way she passes her thumb over her bottom lip when she's nervous, how she always stares in disbelief when he rattles off medical facts, teaches her of disease and disorders. It's the way that she hardly ever argues with him, despite the amount of interest they lack in sharing—she would argue, if she pleased, but they always find a compromise.

She believes in God, and he does not bother to argue against her. He likes her too much when she confesses her faith over a cheap dinner of Ramen noodles and Coca Cola.

* * *

When he kisses her, he means it. She's in the middle of explaining some theory of physics that her professor has been droning on about in her Philosophy course. They're sitting in the garden by the Arts Campus and the first snowfall is just beginning to flitter from the sky. The white flecks speckle her dark hair, and the grey beanie she's wearing keeps falling over her eyes. She begins to laugh, and one of the snowflakes catches her chapped lips, and he can't help but drag his thumb over her narrow chin and press his mouth to hers. Her mouth is hot and small and sweet, and she tastes like the hot chocolate she'd been drinking moments earlier. The world is cold and bitter and wet with snow, and he is not thirteen and warm and in love. He is nineteen and the cold ground seeps through his trousers and he can think of nothing besides the fact that Jane's mouth melts against his, that he finds her bottom lip and he holds it between his own and he is happy.

* * *

He tutors her in physics. She likes physics. In return, she bakes him double fudge brownies and laughs when he smears the chocolate all over his face. He doesn't mind that she kisses it all away, and soon they are entangled over a blanket of textbooks and empty brownie containers and no matter how hard he tries he cannot find the strength nor the willpower to break himself away.

* * *

He knows he's playing a dangerous game. It's the end of December and he's still with her, still walking her to her classes, still kissing her lips. The ache he used to feel for Lyra slowly disintegrates and it frightens him beyond belief. He lies awake in his bed many nights, eyes open to a bleary ceiling fan, counting the number of times the thing rotates over his head. Sometimes he closes his eyes and pretends not feel the tears that leak down his cheeks. Sometimes he calls to Lyra and expects to hear her, expects that she will come sauntering through his door to tell him that Jane is the wrong one, that Jane never was the right one, and that she is there now and they can be happy. But she never does, and he always finds himself turning over to an empty pillow and wishing Jane was there.

* * *

He buys her an antique copy of Voltaire's _Candide_ for Christmas.

She buys him a cat collar and a book called _Map to the Stars_.

She knows him well and he hates her for it.

* * *

They're reading silently one January evening in her flat when she asks him to come to London to meet her parents. Her father is a neurologist and her mother writes.

"Writes what?" Will asks. Her head is on his lap and he wants to kiss the uncertain smile from her lips.

"Books."

"About what?"

"Unhappy people." There's a silence. "So will you come?"

They've been together all of two months. This is moving fast, he thinks. But he does not mind. He does not mention his own mother either, nor does he mention Mary. He does not want to tell her these things yet. They are too intimate, too fragile.

"Sure," he says.

* * *

Her parents like him. Mr. Rutherford appreciates his sensible humor and sincerity. He talks only of the brain and finds little interest in the extremities of other organs and systems.

"I like the heart," Will says.

"But the brain controls the heart," Mr. Rutherford says with a laugh.

Mrs. Rutherford, despite her writing on unhappy people, seems quite happy herself. She laughs quite a bit, despite it being the timid kind (much like her daughter). She mentions a holiday home in France and Jane quickly quiets her. They order an expensive bottle of champagne and Will drinks it guiltlessly. The low, nearly embarrassed gaze of his Jane reveals that perhaps her parents' frivolity with money is something to be ashamed of. Will smiles and takes her hand.

Perhaps it's that—her ability to be so entirely humble while surrounded by extravagance. She's a simple person and expects very little from him, and yet she's exceptional. He loves that about her. He loves it because it's so unlike _Lyra_.

* * *

"What about your mum?" she asks one night. Her lips are close to his. They are sitting on the floor by his fireplace. Kirjava lurks, curled up on the windowsill, yellow eyes fixed in contentment on Jane. She no longer asks why his cat is always around, rather embraces it. Her thumb grazes his jawline, pale and shadowed in thick desire. But she's broken their caress, pulled her lips from him, to ask the one question he knows he can't answer.

At his silence, she holds his face within her hands and furrows her brow.

"Will," she says, and concern taints her voice now. It makes his heart clench. "Please. Tell me."

"I can't," he replies. He hates how his voice is shaking. He hates how she can do that to him. He hates how she can make him cry without even trying.

After a moment, he drops his head and she kisses his temple.

"My brother died when I was four," she says softly. "We were staying at my aunt's house and she didn't see him when she was backing out the car."

Will holds her against him, his hands weaving around her tousled hair. He feels every part of her pressed to his body, her small breasts, her shaking torso. He feels every vessel contracting within, every breath pumping through her. His heart hammers. Hers is pattering against him. He wants nothing more to than to fall within her forever.

"My mum is mad. She sees things. And I live with a woman who used to be a nun, but she's not anymore. Now she's a doctor. She doesn't believe in God anymore. My dad left when I was young on an expedition. He's dead now. I saw him die. And—" He stops himself before he gets to Lyra. Lyra is his secret, his one pleasure. He doesn't want Jane to know about her, to know about the one thing that he holds dearest.

From the windowsill, Kirjava meows. Jane kisses him, and he is alright.

* * *

She's a virgin.

He wasted his virginity when he was sixteen on a girl he met studying in Edinburgh over the summer. She was two years his senior and loved anatomy. During the middle of a lecture she passed him a note and offered to suck his dick if he tutored her. He agreed. He fucked her a week later, roughly and over the arm of a sofa. They fucked a few more times before they departed, and a few weeks later she sent him a letter thanking him for the smashing time.

But Jane is not that girl. She hates anatomy, finds it rather repulsive, but she loves talking about the stars, and so does he.

The snow is melting outside. The semester is almost over. Jane says she has to return to London for the summer—she works a job for her Aunt Wendy and needs the extra money for next term in the fall.

"I thought your parents are loaded," he says. She is flustered, brown hair slipping from her messy bun, as she busies herself over some physics material for an exam she has tomorrow. He lounges over a sofa, Kirjava purring on his lap, shifting her curious eyes to meet his every moment or so.

Jana huffs; she is annoyed with him. She's been annoyed with him for a while and he doesn't know why. "They don't pay for me, Will. I have to work for myself, yeah?"

"Okay." He knows he's been being an ass to her lately. He doesn't know why, but he thinks it has something to do with the way she's making him feel, all lightheaded and confused and careless, and he hates that he fears she _doesn't_ feel the same way. She's leaving him in the summer, just like Lyra. And he doesn't know how to tell her to stay.

Jane sighs and slams her book shut, throwing a muted glare to Will's lazy form. After an uncomfortable moment, she throws herself down on the sofa and moves his legs—not very gently either, mind you. He raises a brow at her as Kirjava swishes her tail, and it is then that he realizes he's upset her.

"You're a dick," she says after a moment.

He sighs. "I know." He doesn't know how to say that he wants her, right there, that he wants to undress her and devour her and lose himself in her. He doesn't tell her that he dreams about her every night, that she's replaced Lyra in his fantasies, that he thinks he's falling in love and he's afraid.

* * *

The term ends next week, but she finishes early. She's packing tonight and he's at home with Mary drinking. Kirjava stretches herself over the counter as he flips the lid of another beer. Mary stands in the kitchen, brow arched, as she dries another cup.

"What's up with him?" she asks, looking pointedly to Kirjava.

The cat stretches her arms and yawns. "He's upset."

"I'm not upset," Will snaps.

Mary frowns. "Why?"

"He's falling out of love with Lyra."

Will downs the beer in one gulp and wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He hates that Kirjava is right, that she always knows everything about him.

"S'not true," he snaps.

Kirjava laughs. "Rather stupid, isn't he?"

Mary raises a glass in agreement.

* * *

She texts him the next day to say that she's leaving for London that afternoon and that perhaps they should grab tea before she goes…unless, of course, he's still the King of Assholery and would prefer to stick to his textbooks.

He hates that he calls her nearly immediately, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, and asks her to meet him at her favourite coffee shop.

When she shows— _by the grace of God,_ she adds, quite angrily—he gathers her into his arms and holds her close until she starts to laugh against his chest. They never actually make it into the coffee shop, for before she has the chance to scold him he's kissing her and she's kissing him back and the world is right again.

She asks him to come with her to the train station and he agrees. On the way to pick up her things at her flat he stops her in the middle of the road and holds her precious face and kisses her forehead.

"Don't go," he says—pleading, begging. Kirjava winds herself around his feet, purring, and Jane seems to melt.

"I've got to," she answers, but her voice is hesitant.

"No," he says. " _Got to_ is when you're in two different worlds and if you stay in hers you'll die, but if she stays in yours she'll die. So you've got to go because no matter how much you love each other, you don't want to watch her die. That's when you've got to."

"Will," she says, but she's smiling. "You're absolutely infuriating sometimes." "You wouldn't understand."

She cancels her trip and they spend the night watching old Disney movies. She loves Disney.

* * *

"Why can't I ever pet your cat?"

Kirjava is curled up on Will's lap. The windows are all open, and the hot, thick air pulsates into the small room. He's sitting shirtless and Jane's in her loose Manchester United t-shirt. He wishes she'd take it off but he says nothing.

Instinctively, his hand threads through Kirjava's warm fur.

"I've told you. She doesn't like other people petting her."

"That's stupid. She likes me. She's always around."

He hesitates. "It's not that simple."

"It's a cat, for god's sake."

"Sort of."

"Sort of? How can it sort of be a cat?"

"It's complicated."

"Okay."

He's ready to resume reading his book when she speaks again.

"Have you had sex?"

"What?"

"Are you a virgin?"

He's surprised she's asked. She told him months ago that she was still a virgin, but he hadn't realized he'd never told her about his own experiences. At the raw bluntness of her question, he stiffens, holding his arm steadily over her shoulders.

"No."

"No?"

He hates the way her voice sinks. He doesn't want to feel as though he wasted himself, even though he did. Of course, he is no advocate of abstinence, but he'd always hoped he'd at least be in love the first time he had sex with a girl. But that disappeared after Lyra departed from his life.

"I was sixteen."

She pretends not to sound jealous. "Oh."

"I didn't love her."

"Too bad."

He hesitates. She's looking down at her book again, her brows creased in a thinly concealed anger, lips in a pout that makes his head spin.

He feels foolish when he asks, "Do you want to?"

"What?"

 _Oh god_ —his face reddens and his palms have begun to sweat. Kirjava moves restlessly over him. "Do you want to…?"

She's still confused. "Want to what?"

"Nothing."

"Okay?"

"Yeah."

* * *

"Do you like it?"

It's a vinyl record of The Beatles' _Something_. Her fingers tremble while she holds it. She's been having a rough time with money, and he feels partly guilty for it. Her parents are angry and she's struggling to find a job near the University. As he was walking home he caught sight of the record and bought it for her as a surprise.

She seems surprised, but it's the sort of stunned excitement that makes his heart swell.

"I love it," she says. Unthinkingly, he pulls her head to his and kisses her, long and deep. She is shaking, and he's unsure why, but he holds her near, cradles her head, smooths over every stray hair.

He's unsure how it happens. But soon they are naked and he's propped up over her and his lips are at her breasts and she's moaning his name.

"Will, _Will_ …"

He hears her but he feels suddenly numb—numb with fear, numb with ecstasy, numb with a guilt that he knows this isn't merely a fuck, that his heart is invested in this girl, that he will not wake up in the morning and forget about her and dull the ache he feels for Lyra with thoughts of Jane's naked body. Indeed, there is no ache any more. The wound has scarred over.

Her eyes are bright and pale and very unlike Lyra's.

He enters her slowly—she is fragile and he knows she feels every movement of his. She restrains a groan of pain, and he smothers her mouth with his before it becomes too much.

"We can stop," he says.

She shakes her head, _no_.

They wait a few moments for her to recover. His hands wander over her body, mapping it out, naming each bone that protrudes against flesh, feeling the blood that pulsates beneath the roping veins. Her heart thrums and each beat invigorates him. When she finally tells him it's okay, she's okay, he thrusts into her again. He continues gently until her fingers rip over his shoulders and she's screaming, _harder, faster_! He obliges her, and she raises her hips to meet him, and she's hot and tight and suddenly he's gasping for air…

After, he collapses over her, and his head is resting on her breasts. They are heaving for air, legs sticky with perspiration, flesh reddened and flushed. Her fingers thread through his hair, and it's then that he sees Kirjava purring in the corner of the room.

"Kirjava," he calls hoarsely. The cat peeks up at him and leaps to his side, bumping her head over his extended arm. Jane laughs softly as Will laces his hand through Kirjava's thick fur. He's never felt more content than he does now.

"Jane," he says, his voice trembling in the taboo of his desire.

Her fingers are soft in his wild hair. "Yes, darling?"

"Would you care to pet my cat?"

He's stunned by how much she laughs, her chest rumbling with it, the sound sweet and tired against the silence of the room. He smiles against her warm flesh, and soon she scoffs him over the head, lazily reaching out to the cat.

Jane hesitates. Kirjava is staring quite lucidly at her, yellow eyes wide and eager.

"She won't bite me, will she? She looks like she's about to pounce on me."

"No," Will answers blissfully, closing his eyes as Jane's fingers descend on Kirjava's fur. It's better than he remembered— _oh god, it's even better than sex, it's even better_ —

"I think she likes me." Kirjava nuzzles herself against Jane's hand, purring loudly, her large eyes closed in pleasure. At the feeling of such unadulterated euphoria, Will wishes he could give Jane the same ecstasy, the same feeling of having your soul touched by the one you love.

"I want to touch you like that," he says, nearly drunkenly.

"That's a funny thing to want."

He smiles and kisses her until he thinks he can't breathe, as if he won't breathe ever again.

She laughs and kisses his nose. "At least I can finally pet your damn cat."

* * *

It's Midsummer's Day.

He's dressed and ready to go, Kirjava wrapped around his ankles, when Jane comes barreling in from the shower, her towel hardly concealing her naked body.

"Where're you off to?" she asks, seeing his handsome suit. "Not off to meet another girl, are you?"

She's teasing, but his heart sinks. It's not cheating. Not really. Lyra's not really there, anyway, and if anyone was being cheated on, it was Lyra.

 _Stop it_.

He looks down to see Kirjava glaring at him.

 _It's not fair to think that of Jane._

It's not fair. He knows that. But he's not ready to share this tradition. It was a promise, after all.

"I've got a meeting," he says.

She raises a brow. "With who? The Queen?"

"Mary's associate," he answers. It's not necessarily a lie. Mary will sometimes take him to meet some of her coworkers.

Jane nods and smiles. She trusts him. She looks at him as though he's a dream. She loves him, and it frightens him, sometimes.

"I'll be back for dinner," he says, and kisses her temple before he leaves.

He spends the rest of the day talking to Lyra on the bench, telling her how it's not his fault that he's falling in love with Jane.

"She's truly a lovely girl," he tells her. "She loves my mum and Mary. She believes in God, but that's alright. I don't mind. You would like her, Lyra."

And after a moment, with Kirjava purring on his lap, he says, "I'm going to marry her, Lyra. I think I will."

* * *

Her father says he's too young— _she's_ too young.

"Not even twenty," Mr. Rutherford says gruffly over the phone.

Will sighs. "We both know what we want in life. And we want to experience it together."

"Who's on the phone, darling?" Will hears Mrs. Rutherford through the receiver, her voice fuzzy and muffled. Mr. Rutherford grunts.

"It's that William boy."

"Oh? Lovely boy. Is something wrong?"

"He wants to marry Jane."

"Oh?"

"Yeah."

There is a long pause.

"Well, that's splendid. Does he have a ring?"

* * *

He tells Jane that he has to travel to London for business.

"You're not even in Med school," she says, hands on her hips. "What business could you possibly have, Not-Doctor-Parry?"

"Stuff," he answers, and then he's gone. He doesn't mind if she's mad at him for a little while. It'll be worth it later, anyway.

Mrs. Rutherford meets him at the station. She can't stop grinning. It's unnerving really.

Kirjava has to wait outside while they enter the jewelry store. Will doesn't like it, but he has no choice, so while Mrs. Rutherford has her back turned, he instructs the cat to hide behind a few bushes so as not to be disturbed.

A sales associate with too-red lipstick and hair so blonde that the ends are burned helps them glance over the cases of glistening jewels. But none of them are _her_. They're all so extravagant.

"Something elegant," he tells Mrs. Rutherford. "Something beautiful but simple."

They find it. It's a silver ring with three diamonds—an antique, the sales lady tells them.

"They don't cut them like this anymore," she says, holding the diamonds to the light.

Will smiles. "Perfect, then. She'll love it."

* * *

It's raining.

He takes her out into the rain and she's yelling at him because she's already not feeling well and the air is thick and hot and she's standing in her sweatpants glaring at him. They're outside her flat and the cars are like beetles, clogging the road. Somebody beeps and Jane stares down at Will in exasperation, noticing suddenly that he's down on one knee. Her anger melts as she takes a step back, hand rising to her gawking mouth as he pulls out the ring.

"I love you," he says. It's the first time he's ever said it to her, let alone anyone since Lyra.

Jane staggers back. The rain is dripping down her face. It clings to her eyelashes and he thinks she's crying but he can't tell. And then he hears her say it, quietly, as though she's afraid he doesn't mean it, but she says it nonetheless.

"I love you too." A pause. "And yes."

"Yes what?"

"To the ring." They kiss, and it's everything he never thought he'd have.

* * *

It's all of these things, he thinks, lying awake next to her. They've been married for five months. They're only twenty, and everyone thinks they're stupid. But he loves her.

Maybe it's because she's so very _unlike_ Lyra that he _does_ love her so much. He wonders, sometimes, if Lyra will ever find someone unlike him and fall for them simply for that. Maybe at first, that's why he fell in love with Jane. But now, he can't help but loving all of the things, even the way she butters her bread, or the way she always sleeps with one leg over the duvet. He loves how she holds Kirjava at night after they make love, and he loves how she never asks what he means when he says he wishes he could touch her soul too.

It's all of these things.

He loves her, and he hates himself for it. But it's quite alright. He thinks Lyra would forgive him for it one day.

Maybe.

* * *

 _ende._


End file.
